


pachka sigaret

by ciredan



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Canon Trans Character, Introspection, Nonbinary Character, Other, Pining, gay and fluffy, recreational drug use (non-descriptive)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:07:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24093310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ciredan/pseuds/ciredan
Summary: mono no aware (物の哀れ)literally "the pathos of things", and also translated as "an empathy toward things", or "a sensitivity to ephemera", is a Japanese term for the awareness of impermanence (無常, mujō), or transience of things, and both a transient gentle sadness (or wistfulness) at their passing as well as a longer, deeper gentle sadness about this state being the reality of life.
Relationships: Authleft/Libleft, Tankie/Ancom, leftist unity - Relationship
Comments: 10
Kudos: 58





	pachka sigaret

**Author's Note:**

> [soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZOTBr01sgKE)
> 
> inspired by being gay, and e.e cummings

It is, he thinks, the first time that he has ever smoked. It is with Anarkiddie, which is a relief, but in the centuries of existence, since first he came into being, a spark in the imagination of revolutionaries gone-by, he has not once indulged himself in human vices.

Why should he? He had no need of altered mood, no wish to escape this world. Depression was a symptom of capitalism; why, then, ought he not to fight the cause itself? Centuries of propaganda had built a careful stoicism about him. He was not known for flights of fancy, for hedonism, for excess. Were he a religious man he would surely call these things sinful. How then he came to be so fond for this little green menace, this utopian ball of drugs and rage that sung of freedom and future and _home_ , he might never know.

At the moment it's inconsequential.

The night is dark, a painted canvas of indigo stretching up vast above them. What little light remains is supplemented by the whirr of ignition that Ancom holds between quer digits. Commie thinks that he would like very much to hold those hands-- those fingers, that if he reached out to touch his comrade that they might unfurl like petals at the touch of spring. If he bridged that gap between them, he might find something like love. The thought is stupid-- the metaphor is ridiculous. He's always been concerned with the material, so to think now in poetry? It's unsettling to say the least.

Ancom raises the flame languidly to the joint that rests between quer lips. The smoke curls up from between them, first as a cloud, then ribbon-like and dancing in the moonlight. Out, out from those pretty blushing lips, around that Roman nose, obscuring the deep-set coals of quer eyes. Quer lashes flutter, as if they could fly away to somewhere kinder, where the smoke comes from hearth, from home, and not from the inferno that blazes from deep within quem. Tankie wants, again, to know quem.

He's not a religious man, but what we understand as morality is inescapably theist. He wants to worship at the alter of quer body, to kiss prayers from quer lips and recite scripture from his heart. His words are fickle-- two-hundred, three-hundred years change some meanings and definitions around. Words are far too descriptive of all the things he wants to say. His actions are a prescription, though. They speak louder anyway. The physical drowns out all else in a cacophony of ache and yearning. Tankie's fingers itch to find Ancom's, to settle between them, interlaced like bricks in a wall, to fill the space between with concrete and emotion. If he could revel in the sin of the physical for just a moment, to be allowed proof that he has a body, that there are bodies in this world; if he could know his desires and come out undamned; Tankie thinks that it would be alright.

He raises his hand towards Ancom, who is lounging beside him against the wall. Que makes eye contact for one overwhelming second, then laughs--(glorious, beautiful)-- and plucks the joint from its perch on quer mouth _(a false idol,_ Tankie thinks, _I would assume my place on that throne, given the chance.)_ and hands it to the man beside quem.

"I never thought you'd ask, dude. Hopefully this'll stop you overthinking all the goddamn time," Ancom jests.

Did que..? Oh. Tankie takes the joint dumbly, holding the unfamiliar shape between his finger and thumb. He glances between it and Ancom.

"Uh, спасибо," he mutters and raises it to take a hit.

It won't stop him overthinking, he'll bet on that much. But he wants to know Ancom.

This is as good a start as any.

**Author's Note:**

> спасибо - spasibo - thanks
> 
> "the longing to touch/be touched. i feel gratitude when i touch someone-- as well as affection, etc. the person has allowed me proof that i have a body-- that there are bodies in this world."  
> \--susan sontag's diary


End file.
